I clear my throat as another painful knot begins to build.
“Heather Evans,” she whispers.
A jolt of electrocution runs up my spine at the sound of her name.
“Shut up.” I pull the phone back and eye that little red dot that can end this conversation in its dizzying tracks.
“Do not hang up on me!” Her voice bites through the line. “You always bail when the going gets tough—not this time!” Her words are sharp as she doles out the reprimand. “When did you last hear from her?”
Heather and I met in high school. She was a pregnant teen with no friends, and I quickly became the best of them. She loved me to the point of obsession. She came over every day after school, followed me home like a puppy and my mother would laugh, accusing me of picking up a pregnant stray. When Heather’s child arrived, she named her Allison, a tribute to our friendship. But as kind as the gesture may have been, it made me uncomfortable. Soon Heather wanted to match outfits, hairstyles, even talked her father into buying a beat-up old Honda—a matching red to mine. It creeped me out. The boys I dated she wanted to date and often did. It was a disaster. When I went away to college, she didn’t have the grades or means to follow me there. I was thankful for the reprieve until one icy fall night she tracked me down in my dorm.
“October fifteenth—my roommate’s birthday,” I whisper. “She found me in my dorm, and I told her to leave, to never come back.” I hated Heather. She ate my sanity for breakfast when we were in high school, and I couldn’t afford to let her steal my precious college years, too.
“Shit, Ally. October fifteenth was three days ago. Isn’t that when you said Reagan went missing?”
A breath gets locked in my throat. “It’s just a coincidence.” My mind reels trying to make the connection seem less important than it is. “I’ve tracked her a few times on Facebook. She’s happy now.”
“A little stalking in reverse, huh?”
“I don’t know. I was bored. It was over two years ago. Anyway, she has her hands full with her own kids. I doubt she wanted another.” My body seizes with a spasm of heat. What exactly do her kids look like? Could Ota have been one of them?
“You know you’re thinking it. I’ll look her up during free time before lights out. But if that bitch is documenting a road trip through Idaho, I’m calling out my girls to do some damage.”
Jane has long professed to be involved in some intricate network that links to the outside. Usually, I roll my eyes at the mention of this girl gang she’s able to rustle up on a moment’s notice, but my body is pounding like a pulse and the room feels as if it’s shifting, elongating. Anything seems possible in this nightmare of mine.
She breathes hard into the phone. “And lastly?”
“What?” I coil my finger around a loose thread on my sweater, cutting off the blood flow to the tip. I like the pain. It lets me know I’m still living, that this numbness I’ve been thrust into isn’t impervious to it. A missing finger might just be what I need to get me through this.
“You know what—or should I say who.”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. I hit the red button on the screen and end the call. That’s enough of that.
* * *
The police artist arrives at four thirty, a tall, stalky man with a face full of stubble. His name is Dan and he lays out his portfolio before us so we can peruse his previous work. Each of the faces he’s rendered all have the same cartoonish eyes, elongated noses, and this portfolio field trip in which he was hoping to win our trust does just the opposite for me.
He asks James to leave the room so I can give him my description while he sketches away on an oversized sketchpad. He asks vanilla questions about Ota throughout our time together and I try my hardest to describe her right down to the last molecule. When we’re through, he asks James to do the same, only this time I’m allowed to stay in the room.
“It sounds as if you both saw the same girl,” he jokes, offering a flippant smile our way before regretfully digesting it. “Sorry. I’ve never been in this situation before. That was distasteful and I apologize.”
“No need to.” James lands his hand on my knee. “We’ve never been in this situation either. Hope to never again. I have a strong feeling we’ll find her—our Reagan.”
My heart lurches unnaturally as I eye my husband. A strong feeling? Are those just words, or does he mean them? How can he have a strong feeling we’ll find her when I don’t have any damn feelings at all? Reagan took all of my feelings, all of my heart, and I’m bleeding out from the inside while slowly losing my mind. I don’t have a strong feeling we’ll find her. I wish to God I did. The butter knife lying next to the pile of unopened mail catches my eye, and the urge to cut a line along the inside of my forearm grips me. I might feel something then.
“How’s it going?” I try to peer over at his work, but he carefully tips the board up.
“It’s going well. I’ll show you the picture in just a moment. Yours first.” His brows wrinkle as his hand moves frenetically across the page. “You know, I’ve done this before, interviewed several people while sketching a suspect.” He blows hard over the page. “I’ve never had this happen before, though.” He turns his sketchpad around and there she is. “This is from the description you gave me.” He nods my way.
“Wow.” It’s all I can manage. “That’s uncanny.” There she is, little lying Ota staring back at me with those black alien eyes, that eerie grimace on her face that I once thought adorable—and yet I could never quite put my finger on what was wrong with her. Too clean, too pressed, too Eastery. All of it felt unnatural, inhuman.
“And this”—he takes the sketchbook back and flips the page—“is yours.” He blinks a smile at James while resting the board on his knees.
“Holy crap.” James shakes his head.
The image staring back at us is identical with the exception her eyes look beadier, too inset, her jaw cut and defined in a way that gives her an evil flare.
“Scary,” I whisper.
“I thought so, too.” Dan shakes his head. “I’ve never drawn a kid before, but this one creeped me out. Marilyn filled me in on your case. It sounds right out of a horror movie.” He mimics a knocking motion. “Some kid comes by weeks on end, says she lives in a house down the street. Come to find out there’s no house, just dense woods. That’s something else.”
James touches his fingertips together over and over, something he’s been known to do when he’s overwhelmed. A silent applause for his own insecurities. “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know, man.” He folds his sketchbook over and shoves it neatly into an oversized bag. “Obviously, she’s too young to do this on her own. But why help out an adult?”
“But what if her parents were threatening her?” The words trill right out of my mouth. “There are abusive parents out there who can get their kids to do just about anything.”
James shoots me a quiet look.
“I don’t think so,” Dan says as the zipper on his bag gives a sharp sizzle. “I’d imagine the last thing a kid who’s being abused wants to do is drag another kid into their misery.”
“Unless she thought it would spare her a little pain. Misery does love company.” I should know. I thanked God for Jane, especially when she was the one being beaten.
He tips his head back and blinks into the idea. “I guess I never thought of that. But in all honesty, the kid sounds creepy. Something about it.” He shudders as he makes his way to the door. “I’m keeping you in my prayers. I’m a big believer things happen for a reason.”
He’s met with blank stares. Odd words from an odd man. But it’s understandable. People don’t quite know what to say at times like these.
“It’s okay.” James pats him on the back as the young man struggles to remain composed.
“I’ve got a kid, man. I can’t imagine the things that are going through your heads. I’m so sorry.” He sniffs his way out the door as if holding back emotions. �
�I’ll send the composite to Marilyn first thing.”
We wave him off and stand on the porch long after his car disappears into the night.
“What are you thinking?” James keeps his gaze trained toward the woods at the end of the street.
“I’m thinking we need to figure out a way to crawl to heaven and beg for our daughter’s safe return. You really think we’ll find her?”
The whites of his eyes cut to mine. “Yes, we’re going to find her.” His arms glide around my waist once again. I don’t think in the entire history of us James has ever held me so much. “I know we will. I’m certain of it.” His grip gets a little bit tighter.
And I wonder.
How can he be so certain?
* * *
At one o’clock sharp, James and I step out onto our porch to an audience of thousands. Bodies congest our keyhole street along with camera equipment in every shape and size, cropping up like mushrooms along the periphery.
“Holy shit,” James mutters as we ogle the swelling crowd.
Odd thoughts go through your mind at times like these, but the words break a leg keep circling my brain.
James has donned a suit that I helped iron this morning. I’m wearing a blue and white polka dot dress with a belted waist, patent leather heels, looking every bit the average 1955 Stepford wife. James slicked his hair back and shaved. His skin is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I went through the trouble of putting on foundation and a swath of red lipstick. We look psychotic, deranged, like skittish wild animals pinned against a wall.
McCafferty waltzes up with her dismal sense of style, that constant frown of disappointment she wears just for us. “Keep calm.” She pulls us both along like children to the lawn where twin giant posters stare out at the crowd, Reagan and her innocent toothless smile. Her school picture was taken back in California, but the photographer sent the proofs to the police department as soon as Rich filled him in on the details. Marilyn thought it was pertinent to have her latest picture available to the public. The charcoal sketch of Ota stands proudly by her side, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from running over and tearing it down, scratching that little terror’s paper eyes out in front of the rabid crowd.
Rich introduces us to the waiting throngs, does a little police department tap dance regarding how they are doing everything in their power to bring our little girl home, but my eyes keep flitting to the camera crews, CNN, FOX to name a few, including all the local channels, and some cable outlets I’ve never even heard of before. My body shakes right down to the core. This is real. This is happening. Reagan is gone, and we are now that family. This was something that happened to other people, and now we were those people. The shit had hit the fan. The other shoe had dropped, and every other shitty euphemism was taking shape and coming to life in my worst nightmare.
James steps up to the mic. “Thank you for coming out today.” He nods into the crowd as if he were the pastor of some monstrously large congregation. The Church of Missing Children. An apostate church, and we are the heretics that run it. “My name is James Price, and this is my wife, Allison.” He pulls me in and nods to the crowd, stunned to have so many prying eyes staring us down at once. “My wife and I are grateful that you’ve come to help us find our daughter. She’s a good girl.” His voice warbles and he pulls back to swallow down his pain. “She has the best personality.” His voice cracks when he says best. “We would give anything to have her back. Please, if anyone knows anything. We would—” James gets distracted by something to his left and I notice a woman in a fur coat rocking herself side to side. “We would give anything to have her back.”
My eyes cut to the woman again. I recognize her from the Boys and Girls Club. The hugger. She’s eyeing James as if he were her favorite dessert. Not that I could blame her—most women do. But something about the way he paused alarms me. What if someone else picked up on this? It’s bad enough I noticed.
“What would you like to say to the person who has her?” one of the reporters from the front row shouts.
He leans into the mic. “I would say please for the love of God return my baby. Bring her to a safe place, a grocery store, a fire department, a library, anyplace. Just bring her to safety and let her come home.”
Another reporter waves over at us. “What about the other girl? Who is she? Why hasn’t anyone filed a missing person’s report on her?”
“She was friendly.” The words come from me numb.
Rich comes up and we voluntarily step aside as he takes over and fills the crowd in on the meager details we do know before fielding questions.
After twenty uncomfortable minutes of standing behind Rich, listening to him say we don’t know over and over again, Marilyn McCafferty pulls James and me to the side.
“ZNet and FOX both want to do an interview—this is evening television, the widest market to the nation. You’ll have to do it.”
“Yes, of course.” I shiver. “Anything.” I glance back at the burgeoning crowd and feel the sting of people craning their necks to get a good look at us. We had offered ourselves up to the public like creatures of interest, a novelty. We were on exhibit and the house was our habitat.
James and I are shuttled off to the living room where ZNet comes in first with its oversized cameras and takes the better half of an hour to set up. A makeup artist powders my face before adjusting a microphone down my cleavage and pinning one to the lip of James’ shirt.
The interviewer, a woman named Gretchen MacAfee, with short red hair, a country twang, and an overall irate view of life beaming from her eyes, sits across from us.
“Welcome to the show, Mr. and Mrs. Price. I’m so very sorry about the situation brewing around your daughter.” Her sentiment feels about as genuine as Naugahyde.
James and I exchange a quick glance. Situation brewing around our daughter?
“I’d like to start by asking you both to tell me exactly what happened that day your daughter went missing.” That curt tone, those accusing eyes. Each of my nerves catches fire like dominos.
“I’ll start.” My voice hitches and McCafferty pushes a glass of water my way. “I was out running errands. I’m usually the one that picks up Reagan from school. But that day James stepped in. By the time I came home, she was already missing, only we didn’t know it at the time.”
“And you, Mr. Price?” Her dark eyes shoot their venom at us as if we were the perpetrators.
“Yes, Allison is right. I was home. I’m the one that approved Reagan going over to Ota’s house. That’s the name of the little girl who was with her. She mentioned she lived down the street. I had seen Ota around the house ever since the day we moved in, and I thought it would be okay.”
“But it wasn’t okay, was it?” Her strangulating demeanor sharpens like daggers. A flashback of me hurdling furniture to tackle McCafferty comes to mind and my thighs twitch as if readying for the effort. “Where were you during the hours your daughter went missing? What were you doing at home while she supposedly went over to this friend’s house?” She stabs an accusing finger at him, her thumb in the air as if she were mock shooting him.
James expels a choking sigh. “I thought—I was at home cooking dinner for my family. Allison showed up, and that’s when the panic started.”
“I see.” The redheaded devil gives a sharp look to the ceiling. “How long have the two of you been living in Concordia? It’s my understanding that you were new to the area.”
“A couple of weeks,” I offer. I can feel my anger boiling over at the way this woman has chosen to treat us. “I met Ota that first day we moved in.” A vision of that patch of dying grass where her feet stood pulses through me. “She seemed like a normal child.” Lies. She was anything but and I sensed it from the start.
“And did she ever tell you anything about her family outside of the fact she mentioned she lived down the street?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head at the man holding a sound stick looking for sympathy. For God’s sake,
I need to feel like I have a friend in the damn room. “I baked cookies for her family once, but she said her mother wasn’t feeling well and that I couldn’t take them over.”
Gretchen MacAfee sniffs at the thought. “And that didn’t set off any internal alarms in you, Mrs. Price?” Her lips contort until those viciously white teeth are visible.
“Not exactly.” Hell yes, it did. Everything about that little beast set off a damn alarm.
“It shows here”—she glances to her notes—“that there is no record in the state of Idaho at any school, public or private, of a kid who goes by that nickname—granted you did say it was not her full name. Has anyone outside of the two of you ever seen this child, Ota?”
My jaw goes slack at what she might be implying. “I don’t know, maybe the movers.”
“Funny you should say that.” She points a fiery red fingernail at me. “The police department did contact the movers, and not one of the young men who was present that day had any recollection of a second child around the premises.”
Holy shit. “They wouldn’t. She was in the backyard. She never went through the house.” My chest thumps wild like a herd of pigs begging for a lake to drown in.
James flinches and Gretchen must sense the fact that fight-or-flight has set in.
She takes a deep breath as if James and I had somehow exasperated her. “Let’s go to the phone lines. I believe we have some callers. Who do we have first?” A cue card is thrust her way. “Jessica from Phoenix. Hello, hon. How are you doing tonight?”
The audacity to shoot the shit with Jessica from Phoenix. I want out.
“Good, I’m doing great. How are you doing, Gretchen? I just want to say quickly that I love your show. I never miss it.”
Gretchen winks into the camera and it feels like treason. “That’s sweet of you to say. What can we do for you tonight?”
“My question is for Mrs. Price. First, I’m so sorry for your loss.” My stomach bottoms out because it sounds so final, so very morbid. “You mentioned that you were usually the one at home, but that you went out running errands. Why on that day? Do you think that whoever did this was prepared to take your daughter whenever the moment arose? I mean, if they meant to kidnap her, couldn’t they have lured her to the street and took her whenever they felt like it? It sounds like you were pretty loose with your daughter.”
Psychological Thriller Boxed Set Page 38